Summer One Shots - Being Human
by MissMandS
Summary: A series of one shots and short stories centered around Being Human. There will be alternate universes, character studies, rare pairings, femslash, slash, 5 1 things and really whatever I can think of. If there is a pairing you would like to see then please just let me know!
1. Shoes

Annie does not admit it aloud to Mitchell and George. It's not something she counts on happening or can remember happening from when she was still human. The whole business of being a ghost brings a whole new set of rules after all. But Annie becomes obsessed with their shoes.

The first time she met them she can remember Mitchell wearing bright red shoes, shoes that seemed to out of place on his long, lanky body. Mitchell walked like they did not have enough support, limping along like there were blisters covering his feet beneath the shoes and socks. But then she saw him walking with it all the time and they never talked about it, never asked the other. George's shoes were simpler, a plain color but rather torn apart. She could see visible holes, wearing and spots that he had almost walked through them. But still George wore them until finally he was forced to chuck them into the garbage with a resigned sigh because they were far too gone to save.

She thinks about her shoes which no longer come off, despite a tugging and yanking on her part. Despite the fact that she has attempted to wish them away and even leave them while rentaghosting because they aren't living things. But neither works and she settles for watching George and Mitchell, shoes on and off every day, simple as that. For Mitchell a lot of times there are no socks and for George there are mismatched, inside out and only one sock. She doesn't have any more obsessions after that. Not until Tim comes along.

Annie cannot help but be completely besotted with his hands of all things, his hands. They are tiny, the tiniest thing she can ever remember seeing. She wonders how exactly how anyone could grow them in their belly, how her mother grew her hands in her belly, how she could have grown them. Annie wonders what exactly he sees when he stares up at her, if he wishes for his mother or if he thinks that she was the one before all this to give birth to him. Part of her keeps expecting him to be a normal baby. Part of her wants to fix bottles and change diapers and lay him down to sleep. Only Tim doesn't sleep. He cries a lot less than in the beginning but he doesn't sleep. Still she lies down with him and pretends that in some part of the world this is her baby and that she's taken their shoes off.

But mostly she sits on the windowsill in the sunlight, one hand supporting his head and the other holding his hand while his body sits on her lap. She relishes in being able to almost feel the sunlight, the squishy feeling of Tim and wonders how she feels to him.

She imagines that their shoes would be open toed, sandals for her and him in matching colors. Mitchell keeps saying that he isn't her baby. And George keeps looking at her, eyes so full of pity and frown twisted into a sour grimace. Still she squeezes his squishy hand, searching for something that she can almost feel. And she stares at the pile of shoes by the door that nobody can ever seem to clean up and pretending that some of the pairs belong to her and Tim, a pair of matching sandals. And still she's oblivious to the screeching of a fire truck as it rushes by their flat, two ghosts clutching the back and pretending that this is somehow all normal.


	2. Stealing Motherhood

Pairing: Nina/George

Warnings: Implied/referenced character death.

Additional Tags: Between series, pre-canon

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There is a time that Nina can remember her mother actually being a mother. She can remember sitting on the bed and swinging her legs back and forth as she watched her mother do her hair, brush running through the long, dark locks that she tugged back into a bun. Nina sat impatient, swimsuit on and sunscreen slathered despite the fact that the pool was indoors. With each passing second she grew more and more impatient until finally her mother turned and gave her a prize winning smile as she held out her hand.

"Ready there love bug?" And Nina was so ready as she leaped off the bed and took her mother's hand, practically bouncing up and down as they walked towards the door. Nina can remember the splashing in the pool, all the other children that crowded around the slides as they waited for their turns; the smell of sunscreen and her swimsuit bunching up. Mostly though she remembers lying against her mother's shoulder; swaddled up in a towel as she was carried to the car. It is the last time that Nina can remember hugging her mother and being held by her. She clutched to her mother and did not mind the fact that her swimsuit was causing a wedgie as she inhaled the scent of her. Thank you mama, she said.

Nina thinks of this time now as she lies in bed. It's a few days before mother's day and has been nearly a week since she gave birth. Being a nurse gave her no preparation for giving birth to a baby that was part werewolf. The pain had soared up, up and above what she had expected. The blood seemed endless as did the sweat and tears. The baby had come rather unexpectedly. Hours of pain, threatening to make her howl and screech finally ended when the doctor announced the baby was crowning and then a girl.

The baby is absolutely perfect, a girl without a name. She can see herself, she can see George. A combination of the two of them, werewolves who just happened to spend a night locked up together and some failed birth control. And she is absolutely perfect despite the fact that she does not have name. George is still insisting on Gina, determined to convince her that it's a perfect combination of their names for their baby that is a perfect combination of them.

George is suggesting names now beneath his breath as he watches the steady rise and fall of the baby's chest. His hand is resting on top of Nina's and top of his, their baby's hand. Nina barely feels his skin, barely feels the warmth. All she can think about is the fact that mother's day, her first mother's day is approaching quickly and she does not want to celebrate. She does not want to celebrate because downstairs there is a ghost who among the bottles and diapers keeps making paper flowers and muttering about calling her mom. A ghost who keeps disappearing from their flat at all hours of the day and night who Nina suspects is searching.

"George…I am not naming our daughter Gina. As much as you enjoy the name." She soothes his pout with a small, quick kiss. Still he looks offended.

"I think Gina is a perfectly fine name. What name do you like?" No names sound all that great to her. They either carry too much weight full of expectations or their meanings feel like they're meant to be titles.

"Why don't we let Annie pick?" There is a sharp intake of breath from George who glances towards the door. Nina swears that she can hear the crinkling of paper from downstairs as Annie makes yet another paper flower.

"Yeah, yeah. I think we should."

Annie looks a little more than shocked at the idea they want her to pick the name. Their resident ghost's eyes widen and she mouths the word 'me' several times before pursing her lips and holding her arms out. Annie who has yet to hold the baby accepts her from Nina like she is made out of glass.

"Oh my God, George she's so warm. And heavy, I can feel her weight! I can feel her real, actual, genuine weight in my arms. Let's see your hair; oh you don't have a lot of it. That's okay, we can make due." Nina stands back and tries to ignore the stab of jealously that goes through her gut as Annie takes in this moment of stolen motherhood. George stands beside her, one arm around her waist and a gleam in his eyes as Annie continues to cuddle and fuss, examine and watch until finally she lifts her head. There is a broad smile on her face as she nods decisively.

"Eve, we should call her Eve. I mean after all we went through a name that has…" Nina can see a flash of rage in her eyes, lasting for only a brief moment before it melts into sorrow and she clears her throat. "I like the name Eve. It gives me the idea that tomorrow is a new day and there will be new hope for us all." New hope for her. New hope for George. For Annie. For Eve. Nina lets the weight of her daughter's name settle on her tongue and slide down her throat. It goes smoothly and her toes curl on the bare floor.

"Nina, did you hear me? I asked what you would like to do for mother's day." George asks and squeezes her waist. Nina thinks of their bedroom, cluttered with bottles and diapers and boxes of wipes. She watches Annie, still completely focused on Eve and she feels something shift in her chest, something that feels like gratitude.

"I'd like to go out, just for a little while. I could use a little time outside before I go stir crazy." He wants to say no. She can see it clear as day on his face, in his eyes, the clench of his jaw. Annie wants to say no. She can see the way that the ghost's eyes widen and the way that she clutches Eve a little bit tighter. It's looking very much like a mother's day spent inside with stakes at the ready when George sighs and nods.

"Okay, okay. All right. But you are to be safe. I mean that. I need you and so does Eve. And so does Annie." And because she has no idea of what's to come when she steps out of the house she says of course. She lies beside George that night, Eve's head resting on her shoulder and Nina's lips poised by her ear, stretched into a smile. She will actually be a mother. She will pick up the pieces of her shattered childhood and glue them together for Eve. She will do this. She can do this. And she almost believes herself in that moment.


	3. Razor's Edge

Pairing: Carl/John Mitchell

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and infantcide, implied/referenced child abuse.

For undeadstoryteller.

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He is two steps away from the door but does not go in just yet. Mitchell stops on the concrete steps, filthy and in desperate need of sweeping. Just last night he and Carl sat together, him with a cigarette in his mouth and Carl people watching. Their butts had gone numb from sitting for so long; clothes filthy with gravel and dirt from sitting on the steps. As Mitchell ground out the cigarette beneath his boot Carl walked back inside and he could hear the beginnings of Beethoven. It went without saying that he would not be home that night.

Inside there will be a cup for him, not filled with anything but just waiting. There will be cigarettes set out and an ash tray waiting because Carl refuses to allow him to use a plate. He will not be in the mood for breakfast so any food will be shoved into cabinets and tucked into the fridge even though Carl is hungry. Most importantly though there will be a bath waiting for him. No bubbles, no steam rising above the tub and curling up in an inviting manner. There is nothing welcome about it. It is the morning after bath.

It is the bath in which he sinks to the very bottom, cheeks puffed out with his breath held as he scrubs at the dried blood beneath his nails. The little boy had been wearing overalls and pushing trucks on the floor. Chubby cheeked and round faced he had no idea Mitchell was there, all soft edges and puffy corners. There was so much trust in his face as he looked up at Mitchell, smiled with crooked teeth and sticky lips and asked him: 'do you want to play mister?' and yes Mitchell played. The overalls were soaked with blood by the time it was over, the denim bib of it crimson and his small head lolling back and forth.

He tugs at his hair until he begins to feel his scalp burning. The little boy had touched his hair when he knelt down to push one of the trucks, a gentle pet through his curls. He had fat little hands and pudgy fingers; careful as they held onto Mitchell's hair and babbled about this truck was just his favorite one.

He curls up tighter and tighter until he swears that his bones are going to push through the muscle and flesh. In this position his spine is jutting out and he waits for the bumpy ridges to pop one by one, pushing down to the bottom of the tub with limbs sprawled out and cheeks puffed out. His bones do not tear through his muscle and flesh. The bumpy ridges of his spine do not pop one by one and he is not pushed to the bottom of the tub with limbs sprawled and cheeks puffed.

He dries off and dresses, pours his coffee and smokes several cigarettes until each one has been ground out into the ash tray. And still Carl plays the piano, fingers gliding over the ivory keys and giving no indication that he knows Mitchell is home. But he knows that Carl knows and he knows that Carl knows what he's done. Carl does not question it when he comes into the room, eyes on the keys and hands moving steadily as he waits. Finally Mitchell sits next to him, curling his bare feet beneath the bench.

"He kept telling me about how when he grew up he wanted to be a fireman." Mitchell says and his toes curl until they ache.

"There was this little girl I once met. Sitting on a park bench and she just walked up to me and started talking to me. Couldn't have been more than six. Talked to me for about an hour, gave her legs a swing and told me goodbye." Carl's fingers give a small stutter, lips twitching with a frown as he corrects himself.

"What happened to her?"

"I saw her obituary one day in the paper, dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of sixty seven." Mitchell remembers. He remembers waking up to the silence, unexpected and harsh. Still there was an empty cup, cigarettes and a bath prepared. Carl came home late in the afternoon, dressed in black and feet dragging as Mitchell played the rather rough beginnings of a song Carl played once.

He remembers and now he is standing, trying to remember if they have any eggs leftover as he prepares a shower that is a razor's edge between scalding hot and freezing cold. Tucking a very worn playbook beneath his arm he fills the sink with soapy water, rushing to drop his ash covered plate into it as the last notes of the piano trail off.

* * *

We all know Mitchell uses plates even though he knows that he's not supposed to. Then goes into total panics of 'shit, shit, shiiiiitttt, Carl can't know! I'll play the piano!' Then when Carl finds out Mitchell hides behind the piano and it is very much a case of 'what is this' and 'do we use this for that?'


End file.
